


15:55

by TheMoonGuardian (moonchampion)



Category: Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types, Hannibal Lecter Tetralogy - Thomas Harris
Genre: After Life, Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Dark Will, Heavy Angst, M/M, Mind/Mood Altering Substances, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Post-Hannibal (the novel), Post-Red Dragon, Post-Silence of the Lambs, Purgatory, Set after all of the novels and the TV show and et cetera, Slash, Suicide, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-10
Updated: 2014-12-10
Packaged: 2018-02-28 23:13:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2750696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonchampion/pseuds/TheMoonGuardian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"O death, where is your victory? O death, where is your sting?" Funnily, Will did not expect the second prime of his life to start after death. When Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham die within a week of each other - Lecter in Buenos Aires during a shootout, and Will from suicide - they wake up in purgatory together. After rejecting heaven, they reluctantly team up to find a way out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	15:55

Will killed himself on a Friday. 

His now ex-wife finally picked up the last of her things that day, and refused to bring Willy. She already had been living with her mother for six months. Will received the divorce papers weeks ago, again on a Friday. The envelope was made from fine and recycled parchments, a law firm unfamiliar with him. Including magnets of the lawyer’s face. In the settlement, she somehow got the dog. Not a random stray from his pack, but rather, one particular one. She took Winston. “Willy has been asking about him. I want him, for my son. Please, Will.” He let her take him. 

That very day, he gathered the rest of the dogs in his car. His fingers thumbed over the Google result page he had printed after she left. “Humane animal shelters”. He entered the shelter. He was greeted with barking and wisps of animal hair in the air.

The counter clerk was a college kid, barely nineteen. She had purple hair. Probably not allowed to go to church with the style, in this town. He’d smile at the person, in a normal circumstance. Greet the person with a nod, maybe. Didn’t want the girl to feel weird. Molly taught him how to not be weird. She approached him from the door, and shook his hand. He awkwardly accepted it; he had been holding open the door for the dogs, and she offered it too soon. 

“You must be... Mr. Graham. You called in about the strays.” She took the leashes from him. He allowed her. He could only stare at his dogs. About six of them, either sniffing around or getting worked up at the barking. Especially the little one reacted. “The shelter is super chill. These little guys are going to be fine.” He then remembered the paperwork. He opened his vest pocket, and retrieved fumbled-up papers. Mostly shot records and other information. And their names. Then, he turned away and headed for the exit. “Wait, sir. You need to sign the release forms.” He walked out regardless. 

When he got to his car, he cried. Drove thirty miles from Miami to Davie. Bought bullets at Wal-Mart. “Shooting range, man? A face like that, I’d be convinced y’all about to shoot someone.” Then, the man grimaced at what he said. “No, not… not because of the scar. You look mean. But the scar? Nothing to do with it.” Lies. With Molly at least, she never lied. She would criticize his shirts or his scars or his words, but when she yelled, she let it out in the open. When Will got to his car, he screamed. Punched his seat. Ripped the head-piece of the passenger seat off. A cart-collecting employee froze and watched. Thirty-nine, and losing it. 

Will drove thirty more miles, to Boca Raton. It literally meant Rat’s Mouth. It was seven o’ clock, so he went to a restaurant. He took it in grace. It was a luxury he wouldn’t normally splurge on. Three appetizers, one dessert, and then a fine burger. Molly was a vegan, so as he ate it, he had laughed. Spent fifty bucks on his final meal. Called Molly once last time, or rather, Willy. He just wanted to talk to the kid. No answer. Voice mail. Went into his car again. Traveled somewhere in the Palm Beaches, and allowed his GPS to bring him to a random beach. There was the water, and then a docking pier nearby. Parked. Will took up the ocean with his eyes, the low glow of the street lights in the parking lot reflecting into the waves. 

He observed the area. No people. He went to the back and got his Wal-Mart bag, and grabbed the rifle from his trunk. Loaded the bullets in. Locked his car. Put the keys on the hood. Carried the gun to a ledge on the pier. Flannel was too thin to keep his arms warm, but the vest was cozy on his body. Squinted at his watch, late in the night. A little past ten. Cursed out people. Talked a bit to his dog, even if Winston wasn't present. 

Then, he brought the gun to his chin. The edge of its circular form pressed into his neck. His hands were shaking. The winds were growing. Repeated the words once. Then, twice. Took a breath. Pulled the trigger. He died on a Friday evening. There was peace.

\- - -

Hannibal Lecter found out a week after that.

In a small cottage within their island town, Hannibal woke Clarice up like he did everyday: her dosage, a bath, and then breakfast. Everyday, followed up with a food Hunt. “Time to wake up, my dear.” He called out to her, with a rich, velvety tone. Clarice sat up from bed immediately, and rubbed the light out of her eyes. Held out her hand without a glance. He carefully placed the tea cup in her possession, making sure she gripped it. His eyes glazed over past burn marks. Her loose pants were drawn up, scars white and showing. She didn’t bother wearing proper clothes inside the cottage. 

She accepted the tea. Took a couple sips. Hannibal watched the steam brush her cheeks, and he patted her head. “Good morning… Dr. Lecter…” The tea slurred her speech. Her sleep robes were his own. The pajamas, hers. Hair greasy, in a bun. Showered every other day. Dr. Lecter found it unbecoming at first, watching the FBI student he had known turn into a slob. And yet, it was endearing in a nostalgic way.

Within the second year of living in Buenos Aires, Clarice stopped caring. Especially when Hannibal decided keeping her entirely off the drugs wasn’t an option. Clarice’s fingers tightened over the mug, and allowed the steam to turn her face red. Didn’t drink more. Hannibal hummed. “I realise you don’t fancy this tea, my dear. Please consider why you’re drinking it again.” He warned. She phoned the Embassy, three months ago. Tried calling her aunt. Thought she was phoning friends here. He had retrieved the phone within ten minutes. Nearly sprained her arm, when he yanked her. “Don’t you dare, without permission. Home lines can be traced.” He forced them to live in a hotel for a month, after that. 

“I won’t go on the Hunt today. I feel unwell.” Clarice retorted, in response to his earlier request. “I vomited last night.” She explained, not looking him in the eye. Her growing wrinkles adorned her age and her natural glow, in the morning. She was almost forty. The smoothness was gone, but her fire was not. “I might go to the pharmacy later. To grab something.” 

Dr. Lecter’s mouth flickered from a frown, into a smile. His eyes watched the nervous tick in her hands. The unconscious way her fingers rubbed her stomach. The way she kept vomiting every morning. “I could pick it up, on the way back. If you wish.” He offered, eyeing the mug. An inaudible order. 

Clarice swallowed the cup-full that was left. He waited. She wiped away the stray wetness on her mouth, and handed it back to him. Lipstick stains on the edge, from last night’s dinner party. “No, thank you. I will manage.” Clarice dismissed.

“Very well. Time for the bath, now.” Hannibal approached her without warning, took the cup, and firmly took her out of the bed. He gently directed her towards the showers. Her steps were wobbly and petite, as if her legs were made of straw. He brought her inside, and turned on the shower to its coldest setting. Undressed her mechanically. His gazes were professional as he wrung out her undergarments and her robes. He opened the sliding door. She offered her hand, and he helped her in. At the temperature, she panted and groaned. 

“Dammit, Lecter. You surprise me every morning.”

“As do you, sweet Clarice. As do you.” He exited the bathroom and waited outside once more, allowing her to shower in peace. No peekings, no flirting, nor morning kisses. It was not simply a relationship built on sex. It was intellectual, mainly. Similar to Dr. Lecter’s previous relationships. In fact, Clarice Starling and Hannibal Lecter had exactly five sexual encounters in their entire history. The first three times, when she first seduced him. The other two: power play. And then, they lost interest. Namely, three months ago. 

Hannibal could not recall an intense friendship he did not have sexual relations with. Lady Murasaki, Clarice, … Will. If Hannibal could recall, his sexual history with Clarice was the driest out of all of his friendships. Lady Murasaki, his most vigorous. Two years was not very long(Or in fact, never again was fine in its general-ness), but on most days, Clarice allowed him the benefit of the doubt. No fight. No fire, on most days. Even a retired, scarred, and broken Will Graham would be a more interesting date. His dead aunt would be disappointed. 

Clarice came out of the shower with the towel on, her bun soaked and hair sticking to her neck. She was a sad looking thing, with gray-shadowed eyes and shaking arms. Her waist was skinnier and her muscles were sunken. He smiled at her obedience. Hannibal took the towel from her, and dried her off like a child. Wrung out her hair, like he did for his sister. Kissed her on the forehead. Her hairline was ice cold, from the shower setting he put on. When he opened his eyes, she was still shaking. “Breakfast is on the table. Have a good day.”

“You as well.” She politely responded, making him raise a brow. The hairs on his neck tickled, and he allowed himself the sureness not to turn back and observe. Clarice imagined herself in some sort of health condition. Dr. Lecter allowed himself a laugh, and then got inside his car to get his equipment. He drove himself out into the main streets, where the town people and farmers would stop and observe his vehicle. A young boy waved at him, and he smiled back in a faint, ghostly way. 

He parked his car five miles away from the main market. He took note of his surroundings. About fifty different vendors, standing tall or sloppy in their shaded tents. Loud A/C fans to draw in the crowds for the wealthier vendors, and just sweat and better prices for the others. The colors of the dresses of the villagers clashed with the red dirt below, but even the seemingly lower class had its own beauty. The masses of sand behind them stretched on to the skies, and the blue sky outlined the background. He was aimlessly walking through the market, people-watching, when he passed by the vendor selling old radios. 

Most of them were broken, or out-of-use, or playing music from various Latino stations. But exactly one was playing from an obscure frequency that caught Hannibal Lecter's ear. "- February 6, 1975 to May 23, 2014, age 39. A once famous FBI consultant was found dead within his car on the beach in Boca Raton, Florida. Details concerning his death are unknown, but the police believe it to be a suicide. He is survived by his ex-wife, Molly, and his adopted son, Walton. Janet Reeves, September 3, 1948 to May 19, 2014. Wife to - " The psychologist walked up the radio, giving it a peculiar look. The frequency was broadcasting obituaries. 

"Did you hear the name of the last individual announced?" He questioned, in polished Spanish. His face was stone blank. The vendor shook their head, before turning up the radio volume. All it did was make the words louder, and the woman listed more of the deceased. Hannibal Lecter's eyes twitched and he squeezed it shut, for the noise came in a wave. The vendor listened to the English with greater attention, and his face became more somber when he realized what the station was announcing.

"I don't speak much English. So no, I didn't listen. Did you know her?" The vendor wondered in his native tongue, loudly but kindly. 

"No. I didn't." He replied, and went off. 

Eight days later, Hannibal Lecter was greeted by a very alert Clarice. When he moved to his her forehead, she backed away from his touch. He squinted his eyes at her, before he saw her hand slide to her stomach once more. She made an awkward movement with her hands, before approaching him. She lifted her head to peck him with a chaste kiss. He made an amused sound from the back of his throat, and waited for her to explain herself. When she didn't say anything, he asked her if they needed anymore wine from town.

"No. We won't need any wine for a while." She answered, vaguely. Hannibal almost smiled outright at her. 

"Well, that's a curious idea. I wonder why we won't need wine, for our finer selections are almost finished." He pointed out. She froze at this, and instead she just walked over to the sofa and curled herself into the blankets. Hannibal walked over to take her hands. The calluses she once had were almost entirely faded now, and instead had pretty scars. He kissed her palm, eyes lingering on the white and red lines. "Don't worry your simple little head. Have a beautiful day." 

"You as well, my darling. You as well." Clarice replied, shoulders and hand shaking. He let go, and that was the last time he saw sweet Clarice Starling. 

Throughout the week, he had attempted to find access to WiFi. For a person in Argentina, this wouldn't be difficult except he didn't have a device to access the Internet. He banned telephone lines and Internet from his own residence, and he didn't own a computer. No cell phones, either. He searched the main city for an Internet Cafe. He managed to find five in the last week, but all required either a major credit card or his ID. He finally made himself a pre-paid debit account, and he found an isolated cafe in the outskirts of his beautiful city. 

He paid off his time in advance, sat down in the chair, and turned on the screen. The glow from the screen reflected back at him. The first thing he Google'd was: Will Graham. Three major news stations and various smaller ones had the headlines he was searching for. "Will Graham, 39, Death by Suicide." Although he had been preparing himself for the last eight days, seeing it confirmed for him made his blood flare. 

He searched through the articles: many mentioned Will Graham's consulting career with the FBI, the false arrests, and his "great intellectual battle" with the infamous serial killer, Hannibal Lecter. It mentioned his divorce, his alcoholism, his face scarring, and his struggling mental health. It also mentioned how he gave away all of his dogs the day he died. There were details about his upcoming funeral. Spotlight on his surviving family. And finally, there was a generic statement from Jack Crawford. Hannibal found himself laughing at the articles. He just chortled. Unbecoming, perhaps, but Hannibal Lecter just laughed.

An hour after checking other things online, he logged off. He packed away the papers he brought, to seem like he was working, and he pulled in his chair. He exited the cafe, and noticed the undercover Interpol immediately. A young boy who had a firearm under his shoulder, staring at Hannibal. Hannibal averted his eyes, but he quickened his pace towards the alleyway, and four men began approaching him from all sides. He ran through the gap in between buildings, and the men followed his trail. 

"Stop and put your hands in the air, or we shoot." He didn't stop. He didn't put his hands in the air. He kept running. He managed to get to the other side of the street, where he grabbed a pedestrian beside him. It was a boy who had been waiting for the bus stop with his mother. He screamed. His mother screamed. Hannibal wrapped his fingers over the boy's throat, and the International Police stopped. 

"If you come any closer, I will choke him." He threatened. 

The bus came through the street, and Hannibal Lecter inched towards the transportation. The bus made a full stop, and without realizing what was happening, the bus driver opened the door. Hannibal walked up the steps backwards, with the boy in tow. The bus driver yelled, jumping up and moving away from the firearms. Hannibal's eyes never left their guns. He began wondering - did they trace his WiFi in the last hour? Or - was it Clarice? Instead of going to the pharmacy for her 'health', did she tip off the police? Was it all a ruse, with the refusal of wine and her stomach touches? He laughed once more at this thought, and was immediately more impressed with his Clarice. 

Then, the boy slipped from his grip and ducked under the bus. The bus driver ran deeper into the bus. The police ordered for him to put his hands up in the air. Dr. Lecter pressed 'Emergency Close' on the bus doors and ran up the steps. The Interpol began shooting at the bus. Stray bullets hit Hannibal in the shoulder and the bus driver. The citizens on the bus screamed. An officer kicked down the door before Hannibal could take control of the wheel, and the young police officer climbed up and shot Hannibal Lecter in the chest. Immediately, he fell backwards without grace. He fell unconscious with his eyes open, up to the ceiling. He was rushed to the hospital, and after a few hours, was declared dead. Hannibal Lecter died on a Saturday. There was peace.

\- - -

And then, in death, they woke up.


End file.
